


Treasure Hunters

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Professors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's sorry, but no seventh-year Gryffindor is going to get good marks in his Potions class simply because he's a seventh-year Gryffindor. And Harry Potter, Defense professor and Head of Gryffindor House, won't change that by glaring at him, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Treasure Hunters

**Author's Note:**

> This is for a prompt left by iria4285 that asked for: Draco and Harry become teachers at Hogwarts. Harry teaches DADA and Draco Potions. Dom!Harry please!!! Hope you enjoy.

  
"You can't expect to get good marks because you want to be an Auror," Draco said, making sure that his words had pauses between them and that there was none over two syllables. He might be dealing with a seventh-year student taking NEWT classes, but he was still a Gryffindor. "You can't expect to get good marks because of your last name, or your House, or anything outside your own ability. And frankly, you haven't shown me that ability in class."  
  
The boy in front of him kept his lip pushed out. Draco wanted to shake his head. He was accustomed to thinking of the older students he taught as adults or almost that, because he remembered what _he_ had been during the war.  
  
But Cole Stilton was a boy all over, from his "roguishly" uncombed blond hair to his brown eyes that narrowed or widened or overflowed at so much as a correction from his professors. He would never make an Auror. In Draco's opinion, he would be much better-suited to Quidditch, which he _did_ play well.  
  
Try, of course, saying that to a Gryffindor who thought he was special because he was Professor Potter's _pet_ , and you would get nowhere. Draco just told the measured truth, and waited for Stilton to respond.  
  
When he did, it was with the kicking of Draco's desk and a dead run at the door. Draco concealed a sigh as Stilton bounced off the door. He had put Privacy Charms up to make sure that no other students intruded and embarrassed Stilton, but as with so many other things, the most humiliating things would come from the boy himself.  
  
"Let me _out_!" Stilton hammered on the door.  
  
Draco released the Privacy Charms, and the boy tumbled out into the corridor. Draco leaned back behind his desk and shook his head. Stilton had done well enough last year, and then decided this year that he didn't need to put the right ingredients in the cauldron half the time. Draco had made discreet inquiries about whether there was some trouble at home, or, heaven forbid, with other students. He had received reassuring reports, for a certain value of "reassuring," from Pomona and Wilhelmina that his class wasn't the only one Stilton had decided to skim through, and that he was only doing well in the disciplines that seemed to him worthwhile and more directly connected to becoming an Auror.  
  
 _Like Defense._  
  
Because Draco's life was of the sort that had no luck whatsoever, Draco heard a familiar voice from the corridor. "What's happening to you today, Cole?"  
  
Draco lowered his head and shook it. Of _course_ Stilton would trip out Draco's door and fall right at the feet of the only professor who continued to favor him, the only one who thought he could go into the Auror program tomorrow. Draco didn't even bother listening to the incoherent explanation Stilton babbled to Potter. No matter what he said, or what Draco said, it would end only one way.  
  
Sure enough, Potter stepped into Draco's office and shut the door behind him. "What's this I hear about you mistreating my students, Malfoy?" he asked quietly.  
  
"I explained to Mr. Stilton that he will not pass Potions class without improving his marks," Draco said, and waited for the explosion.  
  
Potter stalked a step or two closer, his eyes narrowed. Draco wished he would simply _decide_ whether he was growing a beard or not, and then _stick_ to the decision. As it was, the black stubble on his chin made him look as if he had been dragged through some scrub face-down and backwards. "Can't you be kinder to the students? He's doing brilliantly in my class, and he can be anything he wants to be."  
  
"Do you know what he did today, Professor Potter?" Draco would maintain the title even if Potter refused to grant him the same courtesy. That was the kind of person he was, and that was what made him different from Potter. "He combined asphodel with Chinese Fireball claws."  
  
Potter stopped between one step and another, and winced. "But...he told me that he brewed the Potion of Clarity perfectly last year."  
  
Draco nodded. "But last year isn't this year. I don't know what's happened, but his work isn't what it used to be. Since you're his Head of House, then maybe you can talk to him and learn something I can't. _I_ refuse to let him pass my class if he persists in making such basic mistakes that--that he could kill himself without realizing what he's doing." He had nearly said "such basic mistakes that even you know what they are when you hear them," but, well. On second thought, that wouldn't be diplomatic.  
  
"The problem isn't just with Stilton." Potter moved near enough that he could lay his hands on Draco's desk, if he really wanted to. "I came to talk to you about the way you're treating _all_ your students, not just him."  
  
Draco didn't move, because that would give Potter too much satisfaction. "What do you mean?"  
  
That got him a quick once-over, a cool stare and clenched jaw that he hadn't expected. Since when had Potter paused before accusing him of something, if he believed Draco was really and truly guilty?  
  
 _Perhaps he's grown up. God knows that would be a welcome development._  
  
But Potter bulled ahead in the next moment, as though he had to make up for his slight victory of good sense. "I've heard that you schedule detentions during Quidditch practices, that you don't allow students to leave your class on time, that you take more points from Gryffindor than the other Houses combined--"  
  
"If Gryffindors had less of a death wish in my class, I would not need to remove as many points." Draco refused to lift his fingers, refused to turn a hair. Why should he? Potter would wear himself out with his bluster soon, and then perhaps he would feel embarrassed. Draco wasn't hoping for it, but one could _desire._ "And I know that you do the same things to Slytherin students, Professor Potter. One would wish you not to accuse someone else of the flaw staring you in the eyes."  
  
Potter gave him a long, slow, silently amazed look. Draco stared back. Now he _did_ wonder what was keeping Potter here. Had he expected Draco to crumble the minute he accused him of holding Gryffindor students back and admit his dastardly plot to torment them?  
  
Potter said, "You--you sound like the stories they've told me aren't real."  
  
"I'll let you in on a secret, Professor Potter." Draco leaned confidingly forwards, and perhaps inspired by him, Potter did the same thing on the other side of his desk. Draco smelled some smoky scent hanging about him, and wondered if he'd taught his class fire curses this morning. "Sometimes, students exaggerate."  
  
Potter laughed.  
  
Draco pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up, his wand in his sleeve. Then it was his turn to pause, because the laughter echoing around his office _didn't_ sound as much like the laughter from his memories as he had thought at first. Potter and Greyback both had deep voices, but there were many more differences between them than similarities. The way this laugh made Draco's spine prickle was one of them.  
  
Potter swept him a little bow. "I didn't think I would ever hear you joke," he said, and his eyes sparkled. "Why don't you smile more often? It does wonders for your face."  
  
"I should, of course, be most concerned about the way I appear to _you_." Draco had recovered himself now, and his wand fell back to its accustomed place in the bottom of his sleeve. He maintained a bland face and speech without much effort. "About what you think of me, rather than what the Headmistress and the students do."  
  
Potter blinked at him. "I wasn't talking about me," he said. "I was speaking in general. _One_ does want dates every so often, I should think."  
  
Draco tilted his head. "Well, yes, Professor Potter, _one_ wishes for them, but not every _one_ is a world-famous fighter and former Auror with a famous scar on his forehead."  
  
Potter snorted, unfazed at the reference to his past, which surprised Draco. Most of the time, all it needed was a single hero-worshipping student to make Potter explode in silent rage. "Yes, but not everybody appreciates that, either. Some people like the more intellectual model. Or they might want to hear about a discipline different from their own and how people recovered after the war, instead of hearing stories about battles they already know."  
  
Draco frowned. "This sounds like something you should be saying to Professor Middleton."  
  
Potter clamped his teeth on his lower lip. " _Her_? Why? I mean, she teaches a discipline I respect, but I don't want to listen to the motions of the stars or date someone who can never stay out too late because she always has a class."  
  
Draco had to smile, even though it _was_ Potter making the joke, and he respected the Astronomy Professor. "Well. She's certainly intellectual enough for you, and she seems to admire your stories about the war. I thought you were staking a claim." A claim that Draco had no intention of disputing. He really didn't care that much about the stars, either, and while Middleton had always been decent enough about his Mark and the war, Draco would want someone who was more than that.  
  
"I might be more interested in potions."  
  
Draco really did stare at him then. Then he cast the spell that could detect the Imperius Curse. Potter stood there, showing no reaction to Draco pointing a wand at him, other than to smile calmly when the spell broke away from him in the shower of bright gold sparks that showed he was unaffected.  
  
"Why?" Draco asked. He could have turned his back on Potter and walked out, but this was _his office,_ and he had become accustomed to having his questions answered. Even though it was mostly students who answered them.  
  
"Is it really that strange, that I might respect you and want to date you?" Potter's voice was low, rough. "I've _noticed_. The way you look at me sometimes, the way you don't go out of your way to avoid me anymore."  
  
"Only you would leap straight from that to thinking I might want to date you," Draco snapped. "And yes, I've noticed you. There are only so many men I might be interested in here, since students are _out_ of the question. That doesn't mean either of us would suit the other. Who came in here not ten minutes since to accuse me of mistreating his students?"  
  
"That was somewhat of a diversion," Potter admitted. "Aren't you more curious about what I was doing right out in a dungeon corridor for Stiltson to fall in front of, _Professor_ Malfoy?"  
  
"A diversion," Draco said, keeping his hands on his desk, ready to draw a nasty surprise out of it should Potter strike at him. He had been ready with his wand before, but he knew that he couldn't match Potter's spellwork in a one-on-one duel. "Really. You sounded serious enough when you were questioning me."  
  
"I wanted to see what you would say."  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes. "And I am _not_ a student to be examined, Professor Potter. You can leave the tests out of it." He turned sharply back in the direction of his shelves. He didn't think Potter was the sort to strike at someone's turned back. He had just shown that he still had _far_ too many Gryffindor traits for that.  
  
"I _did_ want to see what you would say," Potter said, his tone soft, but not apologetic. "Not because I wanted to see if you were good enough for me to date, but because I wanted to know more about you. Since the war, I've decided that I should get to know people I'm interested in. There was way too much unquestioning going on at first, and, well--you know how that worked out."  
  
Draco nodded unwillingly. The spectacular breakup of Potter's relationship with Ginny Weasley had made headlines for more than a year.  
  
"I'm still not in the group you should consider interesting," Draco said, and looked over his shoulder. So far, Potter was standing his ground.  
  
"But I do," Potter said, and smiled at him. "You're handsome, you're fairer than I thought, you're a good Professor, and you're a lot more civil than you used to be. If you can work beside me for two years without snapping--"  
  
"This _is_ snapping." Honestly, perhaps the problem with Potter was an unsuspected head injury. Draco thought he remembered reading about Potions researchers working on draughts that were meant to cure curse scars, and finding brain damage when the scars had appeared on the head.  
  
"I think that you're not as insulting as you were, or maybe even as you might try to be." Potter continued smiling. "I'd like the _chance_ to get to know you, at least. Will you let me?"  
  
Draco subjected him to the penetrating, squinty stare that usually made importunate students, some of whom thought they were members of the Wizengamot to judge his crimes, back off. But it didn't work this time. Potter went on gazing appealingly at him, and Draco bit his lip savagely.  
  
"If it'll show you that you're mistaken, and I'm not the kind of partner you want, then of course," he said, slightly bowing his head.  
  
"I'll come by your rooms at seven tonight, then," Potter said, and with one more smile, started to turn his back and sweep out.  
  
"Why would you think I'd welcome you _there_?" Draco said at his back. "What makes you think you'd be welcome into any private sanctum I own?"  
  
Potter paused at the door, and if he didn't change that smile soon, Draco would have to punch him. "Because you don't want to have this discussion in public, this place doesn't have comfortable chairs, and inviting you into my own rooms, with my wards on the door and my defenses everywhere, would only make you more nervous," he murmured. "I'm willing to give every advantage up if I can talk to you. Maybe _that'll_ convince you I'm serious."  
  
And he left. At least he shut the door behind him, so no waiting students would have a chance to catch a glimpse of Draco with his jaw hanging.  
  
Draco slowly leaned back and linked his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. There might be something to this after all, if only to keep a record of it later and show Potter _that_ way how terrible his ideas were.  
  
*  
  
Five minutes into the evening, Draco knew he wouldn't have to keep a recording. Things were going so bad that even Potter would be able to tell it without an external perspective.  
  
First, they didn't have anything to say to each other. How could they talk about the past, full of war and unfair judgments as it was? And then there were the years Potter had spent as an Auror before he became a professor, arresting people Draco knew. And even in Hogwarts itself, they had sharply differing opinions on Houses, individual students, and how important their subjects were.  
  
Second, Potter had carried butterbeer, Firewhisky, and a variety of other drinks when Draco stepped into the room, and seemed offended when Draco told him that _Draco_ would drink water. Did Potter really think it would become that kind of evening? Where had he got that impression?  
  
Third, Potter seemed content to drink and gaze at Draco, and Draco was becoming flustered, and thus colder and more silent than ever. Yes, of course, _that_ was calculated to make him attractive to Potter.  
  
After ten minutes more, Potter finally put down his glass of Firewhisky and leaned forwards. "We'll get nowhere stepping around everything like this. Tell me the worst thing you can think of, the kind of thing that pops into your head when you look at me but which you would never dare say."  
  
Draco stared at him. Then he said, "What makes you think I would want to do that, Professor Potter?"  
  
Potter rolled his eyes. "Abandon the formality, can't you, _Draco_? I practically invited myself here, but you could have refused to let me in. You've accepted a certain level of intimacy just letting me sit here." He paused, and then added, "Unless you're afraid, of course."  
  
Draco hissed before he could stop himself. "You spoil your students disgracefully," he snapped, something he had always wanted to say when the Headmistress asked if any professors had comments on others' teaching. "You favor the Gryffindors above everyone else, and you don't push them hard enough. How are they going to become good at defending themselves from Dark wizards if you don't _push_ them?"  
  
He stopped, horrified, but Potter was grinning at him. "So you do still have a temper on you, when you want to," he said. "Good. And you're more eloquent than you were when you were a student, too. Always a plus." He held up his drink and saluted Draco with it.  
  
Draco shook his head, because it was that or go mad, and he didn't think Potter was worth going mad over. "What I said is _true_ , Potter. Tell me why it would make me want to date you."  
  
Potter leaned forwards and rested his fingers on the edge of the chair between his legs, which Draco had to admit he found more distracting than he should. Then again, he'd never felt free to think these things about Potter, before.  
  
"I don't think I spoil them," Potter said, ticking points off on his fingers. "I give points to _all_ Houses. It's true that a lot more of them go to Gryffindor, but I know what those students are struggling against in a way other professors don't--in a way that wouldn't be _right_ for them to know. So I know when they're doing well against all odds."  
  
Draco grunted. He wasn't going to reveal that he found that a much more reasonable answer than he had expected Potter to come up with, either.  
  
"And I don't push them as hard as Dumbledore and Snape pushed us because there's not a war on," Potter said simply, picking up his drink again and taking a long swallow. "They need to learn Defense skills they can use to protect themselves in their everyday lives. They need to know _about_ the Unforgivable Curses, but I don't think they should actually be taught to perform them."  
  
Draco sneered automatically. "And you think keeping them helpless will keep them safe?"  
  
"I think some of the things we learned were irresponsibly taught," Potter corrected him quietly, lowering the drink so Draco could see his face again. "And except for the few that become Aurors or Hit Wizards or Defense experts, no, it's not required knowledge. What, you think the world would be safer if everyone knew lots of Dark curses?"  
  
"They would have more choices about how to defend themselves." Draco blinked when he heard the words. He had thought he would shut up. He _should_ shut up. Only drinking water or not, he was still in an argument with someone who had a lot more political power than he did. Old instincts said to shut up and try to convince Potter later.  
  
But he was having fun, in a weird way.  
  
"I think the best thing to do is make it a safer world, one that doesn't require people who didn't volunteer for the job to fling curses," Potter said. "I tried to do that as an Auror, but I wasn't that good at it. So I chose teaching instead."  
  
"A convincing reason to retire from a job you loved to one that's quite a step down, in prestige and pay," Draco noted dryly. "But what was the real reason? You can tell me," he added, when Potter hesitated again. "Someone you want to date? Don't you think you should be _honest_?"  
  
That argument wouldn't have worked on any Slytherin above the age of two, but of course it worked on Potter. He clasped his hands in front of him, exhaled, and said, "I realized that I didn't like who the job was making me into. Someone who enjoyed hurting people."  
  
Draco put down his glass and screwed his fingers into his ears, wringing them back and forth to make sure no wax was blocking his hearing. "I'm sorry, _what_?"  
  
Potter nodded, his eyes so distant Draco almost turned around to see what he was looking at. "Arresting them, binding them, throwing them to the ground. I _liked_ causing them pain. I liked thinking that here were Dark wizards who wouldn't hurt anyone else. I was always disappointed when it turned out someone wasn't guilty." He glanced at Draco, and there was a darkness in his eyes Draco knew hadn't come from the war, or from teaching here. "I saw the signs, but it was my friends who told me what they meant. I got out before it destroyed me."  
  
Draco stood up and walked around the couch to get some more water from the carafe on the far side of the table. He didn't think Potter would understand his reaction, the little flush of excitement that rose up his face.  
  
He really had thought he knew all about Potter. Now he realized he didn't, and he knew that promised better for Potter's chances with him than anything else could.  
  
Potter might not want to know that. Draco didn't see any reason to follow the honesty policy himself. Potter had made up his mind that he wanted to try to date Draco; Draco hadn't decided the contrary yet.  
  
He turned around and sipped some more water in Potter's direction. "You think that teaching a few kids a year how to use defensive spells can contribute to changing the world into a safer one?"  
  
Potter's smile deepened. "It's a lot more than a few, considering how much of the British wizarding world passes through Hogwarts," he said mildly. "And yes, I think this is the best way. It's certainly more realistic than arresting everyone who's ever used Dark Arts, which I thought I could do at one time."  
  
"Why did you never arrest _me_?"  
  
Potter looked at him, and Draco winced. He felt drunk after all, and this sensation, of being pinned to the table by Potter's eyes, wasn't much more comfortable.  
  
"Because I never saw you use Dark Arts since the war," Potter said equitably. "I trusted the Ministry to deal with Death Eaters and all the others who used them before I became an Auror. The only importance I had in those trials was as a witness, sometimes. It was what happened _after_ I went through the training that was my problem."  
  
"If I used a curse on you right now," Draco said, pushing the drunken feeling to its dizzy limits, "would you arrest me?"  
  
"I don't have the power to arrest anyone anymore," Potter said, his voice deepening in ways that affected Draco a lot like his smile had. "Not being an Auror, you see, and they're pretty much the only ones who have that authority."  
  
"Fuck it, Potter, stop dodging the question."  
  
"I'd report you to McGonagall," Potter said. "I'd hate to, but I'd do it. Because you went through the war, and you know the consequences of using that kind of spell, and you have a lot more experience with magic than most of those kids. So if you used a curse on me, I'd assume it was deliberate."  
  
Draco half-relaxed against the table. "Good," he muttered. "That tells me you haven't changed so much that--"  
  
"So much that what?" Potter sounded wary for the first time since he'd begun this whole incredible interaction. "I'd have assumed that the more I changed, the better you'd like me."  
  
Draco lifted his head and stared at him. Potter sat upright on the other side of the table, blinking at Draco, his attention wholly for him. It was as intoxicating as Draco had sometimes thought it was during those swirling Quidditch games when they flew together, alone, above the earth.  
  
"I have to have you the way you were," Draco said. "Or some reasonable simulacrum." Potter's lips twitched at the word, but he didn't look away. "Otherwise, you might as well be someone _completely_ different. And I don't want someone _completely_ different."  
  
"I understand," Potter said. "I think. I wouldn't want you if you had become a cheerful, outgoing Defense expert."  
  
Draco smiled and swaggered back to his seat. "I think I can promise you," he murmured as he took it, "that no matter what happens to me, _that_ never will."  
  
Potter smiled at him. "Good. I want you the way you are. Poor substitute for witty banter and attempts at getting me in trouble and all."  
  
Draco could have objected, but it was hard to object to something that brought that smile to Potter's face, and they finished their conversation and the drinks in something like amiability.  
  
*  
  
"You cannot _seriously_ be asking me to go to Hogsmeade with you."  
  
Potter frowned and pushed his tangled mop of hair back. "Why? Did I sound like I have a mocking tone in my voice? Because I promise, I'm never going to mock you again unless you do something to deserve it, and just refusing to go to Hogsmeade with me is--"  
  
"I haven't refused to go with you," Draco had to interrupt. "Yet. But honestly, Potter, why would you want to do something that _kids_ do?"  
  
"I never got to have a normal date to Hogsmeade," Potter said. "It always turned into an attack, or a strategy meeting. Or a crying session. So I'm asking you now. We don't have to watch the kids, or go anywhere they'll be. There are private drinking rooms at the Hog's Head, if that's your style."  
  
"I'd prefer to do something at the castle," Draco said. "If you _really_ want to have dates outside our rooms." He glanced around his, especially towards the comfortable bedroom he'd had to abandon when Potter knocked on his door to wake him up. Yes, it was a fine Saturday morning, but Draco believed Saturday mornings were meant for sleeping. "Do you want everyone to know that you're trying to learn about me, with an eye to deciding whether I'm good enough to sleep with?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Draco let go of the door, and it swung open to reveal the mess that he had been hoping to conceal from Potter. Before he could shut it again, Potter put his hand on the door and held it gently in place. His eyes were fastened on Draco's, and Draco noticed that Potter had acquired an earnest look from somewhere.  
  
"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," Potter said. "I want to know people that I'm _dating_ you. Not just trying you out."  
  
"But you said you had to learn more about people, that you had to know them before you dated them," Draco pointed out. He wondered if he'd awoken at all, or if this was part of another dream, the bizarre kind that he often had on lazy weekend mornings.  
  
"I've learned enough about you." Potter's eyes were as straightforward as a hawk's. "I want to go to Hogsmeade with you. Or go flying with you, or go for a dinner and drinks, or whatever you want. And yes, I do want to see places other than the inside of our rooms occasionally. You deserve more than that, to be hidden away."  
  
Draco knew a number of potions he could brew for people with Potter's apparent brain damage, but each one would take him hours. It was simpler to shake his head, pull his robes a little tighter around him, and say, "All right, we'll go on a date. But not to bloody _Hogsmeade_ ," he added, as Potter beamed at him. "I know a place."  
  
*  
  
Potter came out of the Apparition and blinked at the bleak, rain-lashed hills in front of him before conjuring an Impervious Charm and turning to Draco. "I'm rather good at casting them. Do you need them?"  
  
Draco smiled at him and strolled forwards, into the middle of the small island. "Had one ready before we Apparated," he said, and watched as the drops rolled away from his charm even better than they did from Potter's, splashing and seeming to explode on the beach by Potter's feet. "Isn't this place beautiful?"  
  
"No."  
  
Draco laughed aloud. The sound got rather lost in the wind and the rain, but he was pleased Potter had been honest, instead of going with the convenient response that had probably popped into his head at first. "Well, that's good," he said. "It won't break my heart if you dislike this place. Come on."  
  
Potter followed him, but there was a heaviness to his steps that Draco wouldn't have expected given the rather mild teasing they'd exchanged so far. He turned his head and saw Potter watching him with eyes that challenged the sky for darkness. Draco snorted. "What?"  
  
"I was wondering if I could break your heart." Potter shook his head. "I never want to."  
  
"I'll let you know if you ever have the ability," Draco said, his tongue running ahead of his brain, as usual. "Right now, you don't."  
  
Potter nodded, accepting that pronouncement with a calm stolidity that should not have been as reassuring as it was. "What is this place?"  
  
Draco was glad to face the island again, the hillsides where you could die of exposure, the soaking plants that offered nothing but themselves to the sight of any visitor. "This is one of the smaller Hebrides, one that Dragon-Keepers used as a sanctuary some time ago," he explained. "They don't need it any more, but the wards remain. There's no one that can touch me here."  
  
"What do you do here?" Potter was squinting at the plants as if he was qualified to judge them for Potions ingredients, something that made Draco laugh before he thought about it. But Potter gave him a glance like sunlight, and Draco couldn't regret the laugh.  
  
"Be," Draco said. It was a silly answer, but it was a kind of test, too. If Potter could try to figure out whether Draco was someone he wanted to spend time with, much less sleep with, there was nothing that said Draco couldn't do the same.  
  
But Potter didn't laugh. He twisted his head to the side instead, like a curious owl examining a treat. And he didn't say a word as he followed Draco across the hard places and the wet places on the island, up and down and around boulders that would drop you on your back no matter how used you were to the way things worked here. His head was bowed and his eyes on his feet most of the time.  
  
Draco drew in deep breaths of the rain, and sometimes deliberately thinned his Impervious Charm to let the water drip on his face. Then he spread his hands and felt the splatter on his palms. When he drew them back, small streams ran away from them.  
  
This was real. This was something beyond the tangles that he sometimes got into at Hogwarts. Here were rocks that didn't care about whether Gryffindor students passed Potions or not, and wind that would go on blowing no matter how many times Draco was called into the Headmistress's office to "discuss" the way he marked. The island didn't need him.  
  
"I'm starting to understand."  
  
Draco had paused at the top of a small cleft between rocks on the edge of the sea to drink the wind. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Potter. "Understand what?"  
  
"What draws you here. The kind of thing you think about and do when no one else is around to interrogate you." Potter climbed cautiously up beside him and took his hand. "Thank you."  
  
Because there was no one else here, and he didn't have to make the choice between honesty and adverse publicity, Draco let him remain that way, and the storm sang over them.  
  
*  
  
"His parents are very concerned about Mr. Stilton's marks, Professor Malfoy."  
  
Talks with the Headmistress were always trying. She had hired him because she really had no one else who wanted to be both Potions Professor _and_ Head of Slytherin when Slughorn retired, and the positions had become linked in the minds of both students and other professors. Draco knew that. He knew all about the war, and the bad memories it brought to her, and the difficult position it put her in to have one of her professors be a former Death Eater. He had experienced the same memories, from the other side.  
  
He kept his eyes on the portrait of Headmaster Severus Snape, and his voice bland. "So am I, Headmistress."  
  
McGonagall leaned forwards, commanding his attention in that way she had. Draco refused to meet her eyes. A small rebellion, but the only one he could afford.  
  
"He is passing other classes," McGonagall said. "Some of his professors say that they've seen excellent work from him."  
  
"Mr. Stilton," Draco said, picking his words with care so he could translate from what he thought to what McGonagall would accept, "wants to be an Auror, and he chooses to exert his efforts in those classes he thinks are important. That includes Defense. It does not include Herbology, or Care of Magical Creatures, or Potions."  
  
"But he needs a Potions NEWT to become an Auror. You can't tell me that Mr. Stilton doesn't know that."  
  
Draco let himself sneer slightly. Sometimes he thought McGonagall was too out of touch with the teenage mind since she had stopped teaching. "He knows that. He has chosen to disregard it as important, and hope things will work out without him having to spend time on a class he thinks is boring."  
  
"That's not likely," McGonagall said. "I haven't received any complaints from Pomona or Wilhelmina."  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. "Why would you? He's only one of the students who decide that every year. He's unusual in being loud and persistent about it, and thinking he deserves good marks anyway."  
  
McGonagall sighed and touched the center of her forehead as though she had an aching third eye. "He's not the only one making a fuss about it, Professor Malfoy. His parents--"  
  
There was a loud knock on the door that led to the moving staircase. McGonagall sat up, and out of touch with teenagers or not, Draco thought she could still manage a scowl likely to intimidate any of them. "Come _in_ ," she said.  
  
Potter stepped into the room. Draco wondered if he'd come to add his voice to the chorus of criticism of Draco, the support of Stilton. At the moment, it seemed likely.  
  
But no. His hands were occupied, and his head was turned. One hand held his wand, the other held Cole Stilton's arm, and his gaze was occupied with glaring at the latter. Draco blinked several times and touched his eyes to make sure they weren't blurry.  
  
"What is the meaning of this, Professor Potter?" McGonagall asked, although her eyes had gone to Draco as though he was the one she was asking to explain.  
  
"I caught _him_ trying to break into Professor Malfoy's office." Potter made a little tossing motion, and Stilton stumbled away from him and into the Headmistress's desk. "He kept banging on the wall and shouting that he deserved a fair chance or that Professor Malfoy should come out and fight 'like a man.' There were also some threats of destroying property, which I'll let him repeat to you. I'm sure he'll be happy to."  
  
Stilton stood upright and folded his arms in front of him. Draco was familiar with that stance from a thousand whinging sessions, and had no need to watch it now. Instead, he looked at Potter.  
  
Potter stood there with his own scowl etched deep into the lines of his face, as though it would never come out again. His right hand was locked on his wand, his left hand on his right wrist, as though he was afraid he might cast a curse at the hapless Stilton without meaning to. His breath rushed in and out of his lungs.  
  
 _He’s upset because Stilton threatened me._  
  
Draco rejected the thought immediately. That was stupid. He was upset because one of his pet Gryffindors was in trouble, of course, and might even have to leave the school. That was a _reasonable_ thing for the Head of Gryffindor House to be upset about.  
  
Except that, if it was true, why had he brought Stilton here? It seemed Potter was the only witness of Stilton’s behavior in the first place. He could have excused it, maybe even made Stilton reform by only promising to report it. He could have kept quiet, and no one else would ever have known.  
  
 _Potter was the one who chose to make it an issue. He’s the one who made McGonagall face up to what the students say about me._  
  
Draco’s hands flexed open on the chair arms. He felt dangerously as if he would faint should he stand up. He tried to deal with the sensation by facing the Headmistress again, but he remained aware of Potter, behind him, looking like a bull about to charge.  
  
“—and he won’t even give me a passing mark in Potions!” Stilton flung one arm out, his finger pointing dramatically at Draco. “He won’t even _tell me_ what I did wrong! Why? What did I do that made him hate me?”  
  
“I would like to know that, as well.” McGonagall bent her spectacles on Draco like a magnifying glass.  
  
“I do not hate any of my students,” Draco said, with partial truth. In the classroom, he could put his own animosities aside and attend to their talents, or their distinct lack of them. In personal conversations, their shortcomings were often forcibly brought home to him. “I do think that Mr. Stilton will not pass my class without more attention and devotion than he has shown so far.”  
  
“I don’t need Potions skills to be an Auror,” Stilton snapped, before McGonagall could make polite doubting noises. “I only need a passing mark. And you don’t want to give it to me because you don’t want me to be an Auror! You don’t want me to succeed in _anything_ I try!”  
  
“I think that you will find the need for excellent Potions skills more pressing than you currently think.” Draco enjoyed the way he could empty his voice of all emotion when meeting such ridiculous accusations. “If nothing else, you will need an acceptable Potions NEWT score. My class means nothing if you do not have the skills there.”  
  
“But you proctor all the NEWT exams.”  
  
Draco wanted to groan, but McGonagall would take anything like that the wrong way, so he simply shook his head. “The Examination Authority proctors the practical exam.”  
  
Stilton gaped at him. McGonagall, by now, was sitting up and directing the same quelling glance at the boy that she had given Draco earlier. Stilton, being a boy, didn’t notice it. “What do you mean? I need _your_ approval—”  
  
“You need the right amount of NEWTS, and then the approval of the Aurors,” Draco said. “That is all.”  
  
Stilton continued to stare at him, but his hands were falling to his sides and his mouth was opening. Draco hoped that might be a good sign. He didn’t glance up at Potter or up at McGonagall, although he wanted to; Stilton was becoming boring.  
  
“Why did I take this bloody class in the first place, then?” Stilton finally growled. “If I could just have taken the NEWT Potions exam, and—”  
  
“Mr. Stilton!” The Headmistress finally spoke in the flaying tone Draco had thought reserved for him alone. “ _Language_.”  
  
Stilton turned to her, shaking his head. “But if someone had _told_ me, then I just would have taken the exams and not the classes!”  
  
“How did you plan to pass the exams without the classes?” Light gleamed on McGonagall’s lenses as she leaned forwards. “You must have some experience and study in Potions, Herbology, Defense, and everything else that an Auror requires before you can successfully attain NEWTS.”  
  
“I could have studied on my own!”  
  
Draco was half-delighted to find himself exchanging a tri-directional glance with McGonagall and Potter. Potter had only taught two years, but already he’d heard things like this, from multiple students, and McGonagall had been teaching longer than Draco had been alive.  
  
“Your study skills _inside_ your classes do not convince me of that, Mr. Stilton,” McGonagall said primly, and took a sheet of parchment out of her desk drawer. “As to what the NEWT exams are like, that is information announced hundreds of times to all students. If you feel competent to study on your own, you should have arranged it, sooner than halfway through your seventh year.”  
  
“No one told _me_!”  
  
McGonagall was in her element now, dipping her quill in ink and straightening her wrist out with a snap that would have made Draco cower at any age. She faced Stilton and said, “Please tell me what _else_ you feel has been lacking in your basic education at Hogwarts, Mr. Stilton, besides information on the exams, respect to teachers, and study skills.”  
  
Stilton finally stared at the Headmistress and kept looking at her, as though he had realized he might be in trouble. “It’s not my fault if no one ever told me anything that I remembered,” he mumbled.  
  
“At least he’s putting the blame on the right person now,” Potter said, so close to Draco’s left ear that Draco could have ignored him if he wanted to.  
  
He didn’t want to. He turned his head in Potter’s direction and nodded. For the barest moment, Potter’s eyes shone.  
  
Then they stood up and left the office together, at a gesture from the Headmistress. It was plain that Stilton would be spending a lot of time there, and that McGonagall might finally succeed in breaking through the shell he had built around himself.  
  
“Thank you,” Draco said, when they were in the middle of the moving staircase, and, he judged, safe from being overheard from the office at the top.  
  
“For what?” Potter lounged against the spiraling wall as comfortably as he would on a motionless one, and raised his eyebrows.  
  
“For taking my side,” Draco said. “For bringing him in when you found him doing that, instead of keeping silent on it.”  
  
Potter shook his head with a frown. “I wouldn’t keep silent about something like that. I thought Stilton could be reclaimed, but it’s becoming obvious that he’s a spoiled brat.”  
  
Draco snapped his spine straight. _Of course._ He never should have been stupid enough to suspect in the first place that Potter was doing him some kind of special favor. He nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You would have done the same for any colleague.”  
  
He started to move to a lower step, but Potter reached out and caught his wrist. Draco stood beside him, politely uninterested, at least until Potter leaned into him and breathed into his ear.  
  
“But I wouldn’t have made sure to bring the student to the Headmistress’s office during the time the colleague was meeting with her. I wouldn’t have stayed there ready to leap into the fight if that colleague showed himself unable to handle things.” He ran a gentle hand up Draco’s shoulder. “Not that it was necessary. He handled himself admirably.”  
  
Draco swallowed. He was growing tired of pretending they were both talking about something else. He faced Potter, and although Potter’s eyes widened a little, maybe because they both stood so close to each other now, he didn’t move away.  
  
“Why did you do that?” Draco asked. “You didn’t want to punish Stilton before.”  
  
“I got to know you better,” Potter said. He was looking at Draco’s throat, his lips, his eyes. Draco clenched his hands in front of him, but kept them by his sides. “I came to realize that you were telling the truth, and that Stilton’s complaints were biased.”  
  
Draco nodded. “You wouldn’t want to be biased.”  
  
Potter smiled and cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. “No, as a matter of fact I don’t want to be. But you’ve shown me I need to rethink some of the things I was taking for granted, such as that of course a Slytherin Head of House would mistreat Gryffindor students. The way you spoke to him today was exemplary.”  
  
Draco’s lips quivered in spite of himself. “So you don’t know me well enough to know when I dislike someone?”  
  
“I think I need to learn all sorts of other things about you,” Potter said, delicately. “Including the way you look when you dislike something, and the times you can restrain your temper. Those things are relevant to my interests.”  
  
Draco smiled in spite of himself and reached out to touch Potter’s shoulder. “This is the way I look when I _like_ someone, for the record.”  
  
“I know,” Potter said, and looked one more time at Draco’s lips before he leaned forwards and kissed him.  
  
Draco stumbled when they hit the bottom of the moving staircase, and Potter looked less swollen and mussed and harried than he did, but all in all, Draco thought it a successful kiss.  
  
*  
  
Draco took a deep breath, moved his fingers carefully up and down on the bottle of wine he held so he wouldn’t drop it, and knocked on the door of Potter’s rooms.  
  
It had taken a lot of courage for him to come here, and he hoped Potter would honor that, both for its own sake and because courage was so rare in Draco’s life.  
  
 _Or it feels rare, anyway. Maybe I should start thinking more about whether it really is._ Because he couldn’t believe that Potter would want to date a spineless coward, the words he automatically applied to himself most of the time when he thought about the war.  
  
The door opened before he could start distrusting his own instincts too much, or think about Potter’s thoughts on fear and courage, and Potter smiled at him. “Thanks for coming, Draco. You can put the wine on the table. I’m almost done making dinner.”  
  
Draco blinked and stepped into the room, following the directions Potter had given him about the wine without thinking. He had assumed Potter would order in food from Hogsmeade, or at the very least have house-elves prepare something. For him to take a part in the dinner was strange.  
  
And it made a certain sort of low warmth squirm to life in Draco’s stomach, but that was neither here nor there. He leaned back on the table and slowly surveyed Potter’s chambers, looking for signs of sameness and difference from his own.  
  
He could only catch a glimpse of the stone walls of the castle here and there, he discovered. Potter favored tapestries, some of them only as large as a single stone and portraying wizards who mostly looked to be in the middle of duels, but most of them huge and long and flowing. Draco had to shield his eyes from the brightness of one blue tapestry that showed a gleaming white unicorn in flight from equally white hounds.  
  
 _I suppose that even when they aren’t doing it in Gryffindor colors, Gryffindors have to show bad taste._  
  
He turned away from the tapestries to make out the drawing room. It was large, scattered with chairs and tables, all of the tables small and round. The chairs were mostly large, and soft. Stools sat in front of them, or stacks of cushions, and the largest circle of chairs focused on the fireplace. Draco thought for a moment Potter’s quarters were larger than his, but then realized Potter had knocked out the wall that separated drawing room from bedroom here.  
  
In the corner of the room stood his bed.  
  
Draco moved a step forwards and then stopped, his hand clenching slowly at his side. His head pounded with what he would have called sickness in someone else. He felt Potter come up beside him, but still he couldn’t turn from the large, unexpectedly open surface, without four posts around it or a canopy to hide it.  
  
“Do you like it?” Potter asked quietly in Draco’s ear, his voice as soft as a song. “I thought about putting it in the other room, but it’s always here normally, and I’d like you to see me the way I am.”  
  
“It’s so _big_ ,” Draco said before he could think better of it. “Do you usually sleep in it with several lovers? Or a tiger?”  
  
Potter laughed and put his hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco stared at it. Okay, so the bed had been a surprise, but since when had Potter’s _hand_ got larger? “No,” Potter said. “I just like to have a lot of space around me. And the bed’s pretty soft, too. I don’t think you’ll find it lacking in sheets or pillows or anything like that. And I’ve been told on good authority that I’m pretty warm.” His hand tightened.  
  
Draco forced his lungs and his mouth to work. “You intend for me to sleep in it tonight, don’t you?” he whispered.  
  
Potter turned him around and gazed into his face, as hungry as though Draco was the dinner he’d been making. His hands moved over Draco’s face, his fingers trailing up and down as if he didn’t know where to touch first. Draco swallowed and maintained his calm, steady gaze.  
  
“Not against your will,” Potter said quietly. “Never that. But yes, I do like you, Draco, and I’d like us to sleep together tonight.”  
  
 _I ought to start calling him “Harry,” I suppose,_ Draco thought, and reached out to touch Potter’s chin and then his eyelids, making him blink and close them.  
  
“We’ll see how I feel after dinner,” Draco said. “Harry.”  
  
The smile Harry gave him was as sweet as the smells now drifting from the kitchen, which Draco thought was a good beginning. He’d never had a _comfortable_ lover before.  
  
*  
  
Harry had made what to Draco seemed to be a cross between a chicken—well, a chicken that had run into a cleaver—and a pile of fruit. Every time Draco thought he was finished with the chicken, he found another delicate slice beneath a berry, or a piece of apple, or a curve of orange, or a diced peach. The flavors combined tasted much better than he would have thought they would, too, and there was honey mead from Hogwarts’ kitchens for dessert.  
  
“At least you don’t brew the mead yourself,” Draco said, when Harry confessed that. “I don’t know if I could stand having a lover who was so multi-talented.”  
  
Harry looked at him across the candles that sat in the middle of the table (of course there were candles, Draco thought, what a Gryffindor) and said nothing for a moment, although the flames glowed in his eyes. Then he said, “Wouldn’t you _want_ a talented lover, who could bring you pleasure?” He sounded wary, and a little baffled.  
  
“I don’t want someone who’s so much better than me that I’ll always be wondering when he’ll leave me,” Draco said, and then winced. The bitterness went poorly with the mead. He put his cup down, wishing he was drinking the wine instead.  
  
Harry reached across the table and took Draco’s hand, sorting out his fingers until they lay flat. Then he said, “I used Unforgivables during the war, Draco. I did lots of things I’m not proud of during my Auror career. I was better at some things, like fighting and killing, than you were.” He looked up. “And I would give a lot not to be good at them.”  
  
“What about this?” Draco gestured with his free hand towards the food and the candles, because he wasn’t about to let Potter forget them. “You think talents like these don’t count?”  
  
“I think of them as tools to woo you,” Harry said, and caught Draco’s free hand to press to his lips. “Not drive you away.”  
  
And Draco felt the first beginning of what he suspected would be a delicious slow burn up the insides of his fingers. He reached out and wriggled his fingers in Harry’s grip. Harry tightened his hold, and yes, there was the burn.  
  
“God,” Draco said thickly.  
  
Harry stood up slowly, watching him across the candles all the time. He nearly caught his sleeve on fire, and Draco had to admit, that was flattering. “Ready?” Harry whispered.  
  
Draco tilted his head back. It seemed a long way to look up, but then, he had come such a long way since the war. This was just another step along the journey.  
  
“Yes,” he said, and let Harry draw him out of his chair and towards the bed.  
  
Harry was trembling already, his eyes so bright that Draco thought he could have seen by them alone if for some reason the candles were snuffed out. And Harry bent towards him, and Draco opened his mouth, and then Harry was biting him, kissing him, licking him, and his tongue was struggling with Harry’s, and Harry’s hands were on his hips, and they were being _driven_ towards the bed.  
  
Draco had never known that that was something he might like. He spread his legs and braced himself for a moment to resist, and Harry pushed him on, towards the bed, against his own strength.  
  
Draco laughed aloud. Harry pulled back to grin at him. Draco liked that, that Harry wasn’t insecure enough to think Draco was laughing at him.  
  
“You’ve let me come this far,” Harry whispered, entwining his fingers in the hair at the back of Draco’s neck. “Will you let me go further?”  
  
“I always planned to,” Draco said, which he didn’t know for certain was true but which sounded good, and caught Harry’s fingers and kissed them. Then he lay back on the bed and kicked off his boots, spreading his legs. “But you’re going to be the one to do the work, because I like it that way.” He shut his eyes, his heart pounding. This was a risk, too. Draco _knew_ he liked this, but some of his former lovers had thought he was treating them like house-elves.  
  
Harry—Harry kissed his hand hot enough to burn again, and began taking off his clothes. The only thing Draco had to do was raise his arms now and then to let Harry pull a sleeve off, and once his head off the pillow for the collar of the robes, and then lift his hips a little from the bed.  
  
All the while, Harry whispered.  
  
“So beautiful—so _pale_ , don’t you ever go outside?—no, I reckon it’s the dungeons that does that—would suspect you of taking your own potions for beauty if I didn’t know you don’t need to—God, Draco—watch you—want you—want you— _look_ at you.”  
  
Draco finally opened his eyes, because keeping them shut through some of Harry’s pleading desperation was getting to him. And Harry was bending over him, and he lifted his head, shaking his fringe so his hair brushed Draco’s skin.  
  
This time, Draco shivered from the burn that played across him without consuming him, and said, “Yes,” again, because it was the word that best fit the moment, and he thought Harry was waiting for him to say something like it.  
  
Harry kissed his bare stomach, and finally pulled his pants down enough that Draco felt them catch around his knees and parted his legs again. Then Harry’s hand was between his legs, and his scratching nails, and a moment later, his mouth.  
  
Draco tipped his head back until he caught sight of the candles again, and panted until his mouth felt dry, empty of all the delicious warmth Harry had brought to it when he kissed him. The pleasure was that great, chasing him through all his instinctive attempts to resist it, burning in his brain, swamping it. Draco reached out a clutching hand, and Harry caught it and bound it to the bed, cradling him, in mouth and body.  
  
Draco closed his eyes as the edge trembled nearer and nearer. He didn’t want to come just yet, he wanted more of the burn first, but he didn’t have the words to say that. He bucked his hips instead and shook his head.  
  
Harry raised his head, and the sight of his lips and the way his mouth parted around his next words made Draco want to kiss him. He did reach up, but Harry was already saying, breathlessly, “No? What do you want, that?”  
  
“To come later,” Draco said. “To feel you—burn me some more.” He wasn’t sure Harry would understand what he meant, and he squirmed, wondering if he could escape the way Harry was staring at him, if he wanted to.  
  
Then Harry said, “ _Fuck_ ,” and took all his clothes off with a spell that seemed to make them liquid and parting around his fingers. And then he was on top of Draco, and Draco grunted a little with the weight, and then laughed with how _good_ it felt.  
  
After a few seconds when Harry seemed determined to hit the middle of Draco’s stomach with his elbow, they got themselves settled, and Harry’s fingers were warm and wet as he reached down, further, behind Draco’s arse. “You’re sure?” he asked, still staring at him, his hair sticking straight up on one side and smashed flat on the other. Draco snickered, sure that that was the only time Harry’s hair had ever been flat. Harry smiled and patted at it with one hand, which just got lube in his hair. “You want me to burn you?”  
  
Draco nodded and said, “How many times do I need to order you around, _peasant_? Get to it.”  
  
Harry’s eyes were brilliant as he slid his fingers into Draco, and although it had been a long time since Draco had felt this sensation, he flexed his stomach and breathed, and thought of the way Harry touched him, and the initial, _unpleasant_ burning diminished fast. And the burn when Harry stroked his hand in and out was purely pleasant, although Harry seemed content to keep it up for the rest of their lives, which didn’t suit Draco.  
  
He spread his legs again and nudged Harry with his knee.  
  
“Who said _you_ get to choose?” Harry said, and smiled down at him, while his other hand touched Draco’s hip, and shook while it did so. Draco looked up closely, and saw that Harry was shaking like a runner impatient for the race all over.  
  
Draco thought that might be even more flattering than Harry almost setting himself on fire. He was smiling, at least, as he said, “I do. And I don’t think you have a problem with that.”  
  
Harry sat back on his heels and pretended to think about it, for so long that Draco would have been upset if he hadn’t been so sure of Harry. Then Harry nodded seriously, and said, “There’s that,” and began to slide inside.  
  
Draco bit his lips several times, because ready to burn or not, it was still faster than most people had done it to him. But then, he didn’t think Harry was much like other lovers, and more impatient—  
  
 _Ah!_ Draco arched his back in pain despite himself, but Harry didn’t stop. They had come too far for him to think an arch meant pain, Draco thought, and flung his legs wide and then closed them around Harry’s back, shoving at him.  
  
 _That_ worked. Then Harry was deep, and settled inside him, and rocking already, because he couldn’t not, and nudging now and then deep enough inside to make the burning flash into fire. Draco reached up and entwined his hands with Harry’s. Harry smiled down at him with eyes as fathomless as the sea.  
  
“I don’t need to ask if you’re ready,” he panted.  
  
Draco caught his breath and said, “No, but it would be nice if you did it anyway.”  
  
Harry stared down at him, then laughed, and even the laughter seemed to make Draco wriggle with the fire dancing up and down in his belly. “All right,” he said, and leaned further over Draco, his body bending hard enough to make Draco wince at the sound of creaking. “Are you ready?”  
  
“Now I am,” Draco said with all the dignity of being the one on his back, and Harry began to thrust.  
  
It was as deep as Draco had wanted it to be, and it burned in the way he had wanted it to, and his mouth gaped and his head drooped and his throat dried out in ways that he hadn’t thought they would, but it was good anyway. The pleasure that thumped through him seemed to leave Harry’s thrusts and become part of his own heartbeat, until he closed his eyes and struggled with it.  
  
“Draco. Are you all right?”  
  
Harry’s words were completely serious, and Draco opened his eyes and smiled up at him. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “This is—this is something, right?”  
  
He wasn’t sure what kind of reassurance he was begging for, but Harry smiled at him and sped his rocking up. “It is,” he said. “I am.” Draco laughed, and that made the fire start up again, and for a while they were lost in each other.  
  
Draco watched the outline of the bones beneath Harry’s skin, and the way his mouth hung open and gave Draco more access to his tongue, and the way his eyes flashed and shone in the edged light of the candles, and he wanted to kiss him. But Harry was already at the limit of his flexibility, and bending over just made him fall on top of Draco. They laughed, and then Harry got back into position and shoved again.  
  
The fire _flared_ , and Draco gasped aloud, and this time Harry didn’t pause to ask if it was all right before he did it again. Draco tumbled into the middle of a bed of embers, or that was what it felt like, and Harry kept it up, his face intent now, his eyes still glowing.  
  
Draco fell, and fell, and soared at the same time, and the pleasure built and crested, and he spilled all over himself and Harry in a thick, long-drawn, _satisfying_ orgasm. He panted again, and let Harry thrust into his limp body, enjoying it.  
  
He didn’t know if Harry enjoyed himself as much when he came, because that seemed impossible. But he did know that Harry sucked in his breath, and reached down and caressed Draco’s face through the shudders, and that was all the confirmation Draco, at least, required.  
  
Harry spilled down on top of Draco when he was finished. Draco stroked his hair, and smiled a little. Harry was the one who would have to show himself better at Cleaning Charms than he had so far to get rid of the mess between their stomachs.  
  
Harry lay still, and then began to kiss his face. Draco lifted his head to meet the kisses, and the whispered words that Harry dropped into his ears.  
  
“ _Still_ so beautiful—worth waiting for—didn’t know—would have acted sooner if I knew—you’re all right with this?—the treasure I hunted for—didn’t know what I was doing—didn’t know what I would find—”  
  
Draco’s mouth was too occupied most of the time to answer with words, but he reached up and put his hands on Harry’s shoulders, and he dug in with his nails and hung on.  
  
Harry could speak that much of Draco’s language, at least. He sat up and smiled down at Draco, shaking his head a little, his eyes so bright that Draco took a moment to realize it was with joy and not candlelight.  
  
“I’m so glad I found you,” he whispered.  
  
Draco reached up and entwined his fingers with Harry’s again. “And I’m glad that you’re so persistent, and good at the finding you do,” he said. “I’m glad that you’re here.” He paused, and then added, “I’m glad that _we’re_ here.”  
  
Harry kissed him again for that, and Draco shut his eyes to feel the burn, sharp as wind, bright as candles.  
  
 **The End.**


End file.
